Solid State

My favourite country walks invariably involve water -
lingering lakes encircled by whispers,
impatient seas drumming their fingers,
loquacious streams splitting stones' attention -

and the temptation is omnipresent,
the sort only children will admit in company,
the longing to unsheathe a hand or foot
and watch the uncaged coolness roll over me.

True, we did this with many things in our youth -
gravel carpets in the drive, unclipped grass,
a patch of sand on our knee or nose would do -
in our conquest of the world as we met it

but the allure of water never fades, the way
it embraces us, tracing our silhouette,
its absence our being, its presence our pardon
from a world otherwise too fixed in its ways.

Recipe For a Sunday Morning

A stirring lilac breeze for an alarm or,
alternatively, a morning dove's song

Minimum one, maximum two people
absolutely no minors

Several medium-firm pillows
a well-fluffed quilt, untucked

Two auto-frying eggs and strips of bacon
and auto-toasting toast, buttered, triangular

A large glass of freshly-squeezed (by someone else)
pink grapefruit juice

Espresso served in tiny cups à la volonté
steamed milk upon request

A stout newspaper, of which no more than 50%
can be composed of actual news

Miles Davis "Kind Of Blue" looping
in the background

One pair of loose fitting boxer shorts with t-shirt
one pair of bare feet, regardless of the season

And absolutely, positively
no planning whatsoever

The Portrait

Standing in the garden facing the four o’clock sun,

the roses drawn up to their full height,

you approach me from behind, press a piece

of paper and a pencil in my hand and ask me

to draw you a picture. I hold the translucent

sheet up to the light and traced the scene

which slowly soaks through, the proudest

rose bending at its apex due to weight of

its oversized pink blossom, petals spread

by the onset of autumn and swaying gently

in the breeze.  Above it, the soft glow of the

sun seemingly just inches away.

Between them, the silhouettes of distant

evergreens cut across at a slight angle.

Satisfied that there’s nothing left to

capture, I scrawl “The Confession” across

the top of it and hand it back to you.

With a grateful smile, you fold it in three

and slide it into your back pocket before

anointing the rose with your green watering can.


Many thanks for the nomination. I nominate: Classic NYC Story

Upon Turning Five

Today the clouds mill above us, more white
than grey, content to shuffle their feet,
taciturn and glowering, heads down,
clammy palms buried in deep pockets.

Not at all like the day you were born,
unseasonably warm, fresh sun slathered
on elm leaves which refused to turn their coats
out beside the hospital window, casting your

first colors upon your tiny hands as you slept
upon my chest, gentle green mittens caressing
the base of my neck, not holding so much as
confirming you were where you wanted to be.

This morning was no different, really, though
your feet were on the ground, hands around my
waist, a smile and closed eyes pressed to my hip
before you scurried out the door to school.

October Showers, 6AM

Morning had not yet fit its fingers through the
cracks in the shutters nor was its reflection
visible in the face of the alarm clock,

but I could hear its footsteps in the stairwell,
the soft steps of autumn,  creeping with an
inconsistent rhythm so cold were its toes.

Sunday

It starts simply enough, a symphony of birds who

Clearly value their constitutions and sleep in,

A leisurely double espresso in bare feet and shorts,

John Coltrane simmering in the kitchen and

Me slouched in a straight back chair at a red and

White striped table centered by a chorus of

Unlit candles and a conically folded white napkin.

Rain patters on the veranda roof in the next room,

Streaming in such a way to pass the dishwater sky

In front of a series of circus mirrors, the stares of

A cigar-chewing fat man, a rail of a girl with a half

Eaten cotton candy and someone with the misfortune

To resemble a pavlova sculpted by a blind man

Read a magazine over my shoulder with interest.

I wonder if the perks of living everyone’s childhood

Pleasure everyday outweighs never having a day of rest and

Being obliged to stand at attention for hours at a time.

I answer my own question silently and lay my

Magazine down as the rain grows still, allowing the sun

 To illuminate a sink full of dirty day-old dishes.

Motivation Letter

I am seeking

                                    Something new

That I know

                                    Something challenging

That I’ll achieve

                                    Something fulfilling

With no surprises

                                    Write back soon